


Cross Over and Turn

by Ataraxetta



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 19:50:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8070454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ataraxetta/pseuds/Ataraxetta
Summary: An injury sustained by King Regis during Noctis's second year at university serves as a stark reminder to everyone around him of the future in store for the prince. In the aftermath, Ignis and Noctis have a chat, a nap, and practice questionable coping mechanisms.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This got excessively sappy. I apologize in advance. Many, many thank yous to concernedlily, who does not go here but helped immensely anyway by listening to my constant whining and beta-reading, because True Friendship. Title stolen from lyrics to the song Lullaby by Low, which is lovely and sad and pretty.

**Cross Over and Turn**

Quies is a small town at the border of the Wall, mostly inhabited by an elderly population who have never stepped foot outside it and the mineworkers on rotational assignments who rent out rooms from the locals since there is no hotel or even an inn. The woman hosting Ignis while he conducts research for his doctorate thesis in the nearby Quies Plains is called Mrs. Linus, retired mineworker, mother of six grown girls, twice a widow, and very fond of swearing. Also, a ruthless and unapologetic swindler charging eight hundred gil a week for a closet with a mattress of questionable integrity, and that's after Ignis had haggled her down from twelve hundred the day he'd arrived.

"Goddamn spoiled Crown City dandy dickhead," she'd muttered grumpily, snatching the notes from him with her beady eyes narrowed as her pet cockatiel Antonio gleefully tore the zipper pull from one of Ignis's equipment cases. "What's with your hair, anyway? That the style in the Crown City? Looks like you been licked by a Garula."

"You have a charming home, madam," Ignis had lied politely.

"Fuck off," Mrs. Linus had replied, leading him inside. "Your room's this way."

After two weeks Ignis thinks that he's mostly won her over through a combination of good manners, cooking dinner in the evenings, and a failed attempt to keep up with her at the local pub that culminated in a long night spent mostly with his head in the toilet as she smacked him bruisingly hard on the back and cackled. At the very least, she's started trying to marry him off to one of her daughters, which seems like a good sign. Ignis thinks, anyway, it's hard to tell how much she actually likes her daughters.

The bird, however, remains insufferable, squawking "dandy dickhead!" whenever Ignis is around and following him into the bathroom when he showers to perch on the curtain rod and say, "Whoa! What've you got down there?" between loud wolf whistles.

On his last night in town, he returns to her apartment with burgers and fries from the diner down the street. The smell brings her nose first out of her bedroom in a nightgown and curlers. She looks at the bag on the table suspiciously. "You're still here? What's that?"

"Dinner," he says, pulling plates from the cupboards. "And yes, I'm still here. I leave tomorrow morning, remember?"

"You're not cooking?" she snaps. She sounds almost disappointed, but covers it with a sniff. "Thank the gods, couldn't stand another night of that fancy shit. What the fuck are you using a plate for?"

"It might be messy," Ignis explains.

Mrs. Linus scowls at him. "Ain't no one eating a burger off a fucking plate under my roof, even you big city dandy." ("Dandy dickhead!" Antonio shouts.)

And so Ignis reluctantly sits down on the squeaky old sofa in the living room to eat from grease-sodden cartons and watch Mrs. Linus's favorite show on one of her premium channels, which is both hideously violent and uncomfortably full of rather kinky sex scenes.

About ten minutes in Antonio totters from Mrs. Linus's chair to the sofa and then onto Ignis's knee. "Hello, hello," the bird says, puffing up his feathers. 

"Hello," Ignis replies delicately, knowing from experience that nothing good can come of this. On the screen, a naked man is being bound to a four-poster bed by a scantily clad woman, the sheet over his hips doing little to hide his very generous endowment. Mrs. Linus smacks her lips together.

"You could put a full three-ring circus under there," she says. When the sheet comes off she whistles. "I never liked horses, now, but I wouldn't mind riding _that_ into the sunset, let me tell you."

He'd really rather she didn't. Antonio snatches a fry from Ignis's hand and throws it on the floor. He does the same with the next two. Ignis sighs. "Mrs. Linus, you are a pervert, and your bird is a bloody arsehole."

Antonio raises his crest feathers mockingly.

Ignis glares, and Mrs. Linus looks over, her mouth pulling into a mean grin. "See? He thinks your hair is fucking stupid too."

During the ads after her show is over, Mrs. Linus heaves a sigh and gives him a grumpy look. "So you're leaving tomorrow, are you? Done playing with things you ought not to in those plains?"

"Regretfully," Ignis says, as though he isn't dying to return to civilization where there are proper beds and a coffee shop that serves Ebony on every corner. "My leave is over soon."

"Back to the Crown City and this 'Noct' person?" Mrs. Linus says. Ignis snaps his head around to look at her, stunned. She taps the tip of her nose knowledgeably and pulls his mobile from the pocket of her robe and hands it to him. "You left it in your room so I was looking through it earlier. They was texting you all kinds of shit with those damn emoji, and your calendar's full of all Noct this and Noct that."

The University of Insomnia had posted final exam results for the end of the semester just this morning, and Ignis had texted Noctis to congratulate him on his excellent scores because his specialized course load has been grueling and that he's done so well is truly impressive. While he had indeed left his phone in his rented room when he'd left for the Plains after, it had most certainly been locked. How did Mrs. Linus even get into it? 

She's terrible. 

Ignis is quite going to miss her.

"Yes," he says, once he can talk past the shock of her gall. "Back to Noct."

"Hmph," she says as Ignis thumbs his phone awake and pulls up his text messages. "You'd be better off with my Gretchen. That Noct sounds fucking high-maintenance."

Noctis has replied to Ignis's _'Outstanding!'_ with emojis of a thumbs up, a smiley face wearing sunglasses, the words U-O-Me, and six aubergines.

"Oh, my dear Mrs. Linus," Ignis tells her. "You have no idea."

 

* 

 

Gladio is waiting for him when Ignis steps onto the platform at the Crown City train station, leaning against one of the support pillars near the entrance with his arms casually crossed over his chest. He's drawing a lot of stares, which isn't unusual except this time Ignis can't tell if people are appreciating his washboard abs and hulking pectorals or the vicious gash on the left side of his face, significantly healed since he first acquired the wound several months ago but still an angry, puckering red right over his eye from hairline to jaw as it begins to scar. He pushes off the pillar as Ignis approaches.

"Welcome back," he says.

"Thank you," Ignis replies. "What are you doing here?"

"You mean you're not glad to see me?" Gladio makes a wounded face, holding a hand to his chest. "I'm hurt. It's been weeks."

He grins when Ignis lifts an unimpressed eyebrow, and leads the way out of the station to the parking deck. It's packed, crowds drawn to the outdoor markets in the city center by a rare sunny day in a what has been an unseasonably wet and chilly autumn that has begun to turn into a harsh winter, but Gladio's ugly behemoth of a truck is sideways across two spots by the stairs on the first level that are painted over to indicate a no parking zone. The sticker on his windshield that allows him to park wherever he'd like is the only perk of his station that Ignis has ever known Gladio to use. 

He puts his luggage in the back of the car and climbs into the passenger seat as the engine roars to life. It's obnoxiously loud, but though visually based off a military transport, it's at heart a luxury brand SUV, and thus very well insulated in the cabin. The sound dies down to a rumble as soon as the doors are closed. As they pull out into traffic Gladio asks, "So how'd it go at the border? You get what you needed for your dissertation?"

Ignis studies him curiously as he replies. "Yes, I believe so. There was a bit more digging than I'd been hoping for, but all in all it was a worthy endeavour. Not to mention an invaluable experience. The elemental storm in Quies only recedes once every few centuries. I'm lucky to have been alive during this phase of its cycle. The deposits I was studying were virtually untouched."

"Nice," Gladio says. He's not really paying attention. Not that Ignis expected him to, but he seems uncharacteristically distracted, and it's odd that he's come to pick Ignis up at all. They're friends, one might even say close friends, but meeting him at the train station seems a little sentimental for Gladio. There must be something going on that can't wait the half hour it would have taken Ignis to travel by cab to the Citadel, or else something he wants to discuss outside the palace. 

"Mm," Ignis says.

Gladio offers no further insight. As they take the next turn onto the highway ramp, they're both momentarily distracted by the sun glaring directly into their eyes. Ignis retrieves Gladio's sunglasses from their compartment above the rearview mirror and hands them to him. "Thanks. There should be another pair in the glove box."

Ignis finds them. The frames are huge and white with gold hinges and little pink gems encrusted in the corners. "Did Cassandra leave these in here?" He asks, though they seem a bit gaudy for Gladio's ex.

"Iris."

That makes more sense. They look more fourteen than twenty-four. Ignis puts them on over his glasses and Gladio snorts. "Very chic."

"Thank you," says Ignis. Into the comfortable silence that follows, he says, "Gladio, not that I don't appreciate it, but why did you come to pick me up?"

Gladio tries to glance at him discreetly. He's not successful. "I wasn't sure if you were going to your place or the palace or straight to Noct's. I guess you haven't talked to him?"

That doesn't answer his question, but is sufficiently concerning, not least of which because despite knowing that Ignis has been engaging in wildly inappropriate and career (and possibly life)-ruining behavior with their mutual charge, Gladio doesn't ever bring it up outside of ignorable raunchy innuendo, so Ignis allows the segue. 

"Not since yesterday." They had spoken for a few minutes over text last night, and Noctis had seemed fine. Surely he couldn't have gotten up to much trouble since then. "It's noon on his first day of the winter holiday. He's probably not awake yet."

"He is," Gladio says gruffly. "The king asked to see him this morning."

"Not a scheduled meeting," Ignis says in lieu of knowing how else to respond. He knows for a fact that Noctis's calendar is free today.

"Nope. Very last minute. I only found out because I saw Noct on his way out," Gladio says. Traffic is at a stand still. Gladio's thumbs are tapping an agitated beat on the steering wheel.

Ignis purses his lips thoughtfully. An unplanned visit to the palace would have been unusual during Noctis's high school years, but his relationship with his father has improved significantly since then. It's not exactly a regular occurrence, but it's no longer unheard of. Still, something about Gladio's tone makes him ask, "How did he look?"

"Not great," Gladio says shortly. After a moment, he adds, "He left his car at the palace, said he wanted to walk back to his place, clear his head. He wasn't angry, I don't think they argued, but it's hard to tell. I couldn't get much out of him. You know Noct."

"Yes," Ignis agrees solemnly. Only too well.

Gladio looks over at him and makes a face. "C'mon, man, I can't take you seriously in those things."

"What? Oh." Ignis had forgotten that he was still wearing Iris's sunglasses. Tacky, but doing their job admirably; he winces into the glare of the sun as he pulls them off and puts them back where he found them. Traffic has started moving again. Gladio weaves neatly between lanes without using a signal, and Ignis doesn't kill him for it despite the powerful urge to, which he feels is a sign of great character. "Sorry. You were saying?"

Gladio says, "Right. So after Noct left I got a text from my old man that His Majesty wants to talk to us once you get back. I figured I'd pass on the heads up. So here I am, passing it on."

That's ominous. Ignis can count on one hand the number of times he's been summoned before the king. He asks for updates on Noctis whenever they happen to cross paths in the palace, but that has been happening less often. "Both of us? Why?"

Gladio shrugs, too casually. "My dad didn't say."

"But you know," Ignis says shrewdly. 

This must be what Gladio didn't want to divulge over the phone or at the palace. He doesn't answer for a long time, as though he's reluctant to put whatever it is to voice. Eventually, he says, "There are rumors going around the staff that the king has been injured. His hand. They're saying it's bad."

"Injured when?" Ignis doesn't have to ask which hand.

"Last night. They're just rumors," Gladio says. He doesn't sound convinced.

"You think they're true?" Ignis asks, a dull sort of dread solidifying in his stomach. 

"I think Noct left looking not great," says Gladio. His jaw is tight, and his grip on the steering wheel has blanched his knuckles of color.

There's little to say after that. As they near their exit Ignis looks out his window where the Citadel is in full, magnificent view. It's an awe-inspiring sight, a palace worthy of its kingdom, a stronghold of power. And of course the crystal at its core; blessed, brilliant pure magic. The beating heart of Lucis. 

What a gift it is.

 

*

 

The rumors, as it turns out, are true. 

King Regis has lost partial use of his left hand due to the rapid depletion of bone density by severe and chronic arthritis, which he's had for less than a year. A mishap with a stubborn door the night before shattered several bones and caused significant nerve damage. Fortunately, the arthritis is localized to his hand. The Ring of the Lucii has been moved temporarily to the other.

He wanted to tell them personally, to impress upon them the seriousness of the implications. He had hoped to end this war in his lifetime, he says, but can no longer ignore that maintaining the Wall is taking its toll more rapidly than he had anticipated. As such, the priority now is to prepare the throne for his son.

 _What about preparing your son for the throne?_ Ignis wants to ask. _How is he to rule from beneath the shroud of ignorance you've sheltered him in?_

"Ignis," says King Regis, "I leave Noct to you."

There is, of course, only one possible response. "Yes, Your Majesty."

 

*

 

He lets himself into Noctis's apartment a few hours later. It's twilight, bloody orange sun on the horizon splashing a bloody orange tint through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room and casting long shadows from the furniture. He removes his shoes and hangs his coat in the front closet, and picks up Noctis's from where it's been draped over a chair at the dining room table and hangs it up too. He drops the car keys Noctis left with Gladio in the bowl on the table by the door and checks that the door is locked before he takes his luggage into the bedroom.

Noctis is in the shower, a blur behind distorted glass visible through dissipating steam from the open door of the ensuite. Ignis wonders how long he's been in there, if he came straight from the palace or stopped off somewhere and only just recently got home. Probably the former. Ignis can count Noctis's friends outside of himself and Gladio on one finger, and Prompto is spending the first week of winter break on a rare holiday with his parents, who he even more rarely gets to see. Either way, he no doubt needs it after the five mile walk from the Citadel, so Ignis leaves him to it. 

The bedroom is impressively orderly. The bed is even made, which can only mean that Noctis put fresh sheets on it sometime today. Ignis finds the set he swapped out on top of the overflowing pile in Noctis's hamper. He adds his own dirty clothes from his suitcase to it and takes the whole thing to the laundry room, to be taken care of later, and then retreats back to the main room with the intention of tidying up, but there's not much that needs doing. 

It still sometimes startles him to come here after any more than a few days away and find an apartment, rather than a trash heap with a fantastic view. Noctis has thankfully made an effort to keep his living space clean over the last few years but memories from the the flat he lived in during high school still linger. He doesn't keep to the exacting order that Ignis prefers but it's leaps and bounds from how he used to be. As a show of appreciation for this character development, Ignis tries not to overstep his bounds by messing with any clutter. Usually. Tonight, it's beyond his ability. 

The kitchen table is covered with open textbooks and binders of schoolwork, which Ignis stacks neatly to one side and wipes clean of ink and pencil stains. In the living room he clears the coffee table of an empty water bottle, a few magazines, and controllers from three different game consoles. He folds three blankets that have been tossed haphazardly over the sofa and turns the television off. The kitchen is spotless, if only because there's almost no food in it. Ignis makes a mental note to make time to do a proper shop tomorrow. There aren't even dishes in the dishwasher, and he's disgruntled to discover that the trash and recycling have already been taken out.

He's not unaware that he's anxious. Ignis's plans for his first night back in the Crown City had been to cook Noctis a nice meal to celebrate his excellent exam scores, and accompany him on whatever late night lark he'd want to venture out on his first night of freedom, possibly a reunion that would at the very least mess up those clean sheets on his bed, if not pull them off entirely. They had _not_ included an audience with a disheartened king and a pile of new responsibilities, nor the glaring reminder of the prince's eventual fate and the resurgence of guilt for his place in said prince's bed. 

Ignis's own feelings on the subject have not been as easily compartmentalized as he would like, and King Regis had been mum on his son's reaction to the news of his injury, which was less than helpful. As well as Ignis knows him, it's impossible to guess what to expect from Noctis in these situations or how Ignis will best be able to help him, if he can at all, how to parse out what he should do from what he wants to. Worse still that a good portion of this struggle is a mess of his own making. He blurred the lines between duty and desire long ago. 

He's just finished brewing two cups of tea when Noctis emerges from his bedroom in a t-shirt and loose lounge pants. He stops just outside the door when he sees Ignis in the kitchen. 

"Good evening, Noct," Ignis says.

Noctis's expression is mild, an upgrade from the sullen blankness he used to wield like a weapon but just as unreadable. His self-defense mechanisms are an endless supply of fascination and frustration, carefully honed as he's grown up. It's taken years for Ignis to peel back the layers and study the working parts of each one. This is Noctis at his most self-conscious, wounded and bracing himself to be kicked while he's down, even if it's for his own good. Having suffered at the hands of well-meaning friends just as often as those of his enemies he's cautious with both.

"I thought your train got in earlier," is the first thing he says, tone slightly accusatory.

"It did. I had to return to the palace with Gladio unexpectedly for an audience with the king."

Noctis tenses as though expecting a lecture or, perhaps worse, some kind of condolence or attempt at comfort, but there's nothing Ignis can say that wouldn't sound trite. He's gotten across what he wanted to, that he knows, that he's here if Noctis would like to talk. All he offers is a cup of hot tea as Noctis ventures further into the main room. Noctis curls both hands around the mug, drawing it close to his chest and dipping his head to breathe in the steam. It's a child-like gesture that reveals more than anything how tired he is. Perhaps he hasn't been sleeping well, kept awake by the stress of his exams or the empty side of his bed, or maybe the weight of today has worn him down all on its own. His face is pale, shadows heavy under his eyes. It stirs warring instincts, makes Ignis want to protect him, makes Ignis want him.

"How was your trip?" Noctis asks, appeased. He leads the way to the sofa, folding one of his legs underneath him so he can sit sideways and face Ignis, who leaves half a cushion of space between them when he sits down.

"It went very well," Ignis tells him. Noctis watches him over the rim of his cup as he sips his tea, his silence an invitation to continue. He would listen right now if Ignis wanted to tell him about his research, out of politeness or as an attempt to force himself to share an interest since they have so few in common, but Ignis would much rather relish the ones they do. "I brought you something."

Predictably, Noctis perks up at once. The shy smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth is all the more precious for how he tries to suppress it. "You didn't have to," he says. "What is it?"

It isn't much; a piece of iron meteorite from the site of the fossilized elemental deposits Ignis had been studying, as verified by the very excited head of geology at the university, to whom Ignis had relinquished all of his found fragments for chemical testing and taken back only this one. Once certain of what it was it had seemed a fitting gift for Noctis, not least of which because there are so few things he can't buy for himself. 

Ignis collects it from his bag in the bedroom and settles back down with his tea while Noctis takes it out of the small box Ignis had put it in with a confused, slightly disappointed frown. It gleams slate grey and wrinkled-looking in the palm of his hand. 

"It's a rock," he says. He's a brash, ungracious thing, his incredulity blatant on his face. It doesn't soften as Ignis explains, but it shifts into another sort of disbelief, a quiet kind of intrigue and reverence that rips Ignis apart at the seams. Noctis hums thoughtfully, and sets his half-empty mug down on the side table and rubs his thumb along the grooved surface of his prize.

"A piece of the sky, from a time when the sky could still occasionally touch Insomnia," Ignis says. "I thought you might like it."

"Oh," says Noctis. He closes his hand around the meteorite fragment, trying not to look pleased, and Ignis knows it will end up tucked away in a shoebox or biscuit tin in his closet or the secret compartment in the trunk of the Regalia with the rest of the innocuous keepsakes Noctis has collected over the years and hoarded away jealously like a little scavenging raccoon.

It's an unforgivable vanity that Ignis should feel so honored by that, as though it's some great accomplishment to gift this spoiled prince something that he actually likes. He quickly schools his features into neutral unaffectedness and clears his throat before speaking again.

"And?" he prompts. Nineteen years old and they're still working on please and thank you. "What do we say after we receive a gift?"

Noctis's grin is unfettered, breathtaking. After a beat he tugs Ignis's ankle from where it rests on the opposite knee and makes a place for himself in Ignis's lap. The lounge pants he's wearing are the soft, sinfully thin cotton ones that Ignis likes him in best, light gray and slung low on his hips and clinging to his thighs and arse, molding to the shape of him. His knees press into the cushion on either side of Ignis's hips. Ignis steadies him with a hand on the small of his back as Noctis reaches past him to set his gift on the long table behind the sofa, freeing his hands to grasp the lapels of Ignis's jacket.

"Thank you, Ignis," he says, wry smile on his lovely face. Ignis rests his head on the back of the sofa to look up at him. Noctis's eyes are an eerie, electric blue, too old and too young all at once. His long eyelashes flutter when Ignis thumbs over the knots of his ankles and he shivers, toes curling with ticklishness when Ignis draws his forefingers up the soles of his shower-soft feet. Noctis has never been expressive; each visible, involuntary reaction coaxed from him feels like a victory. Ignis has become addicted, ravenous for every shudder and gasp and bitten-back sound that only he can draw out. Noctis isn't the only one prone to hoarding his treasures.

"You're welcome," Ignis replies solicitously. Noctis's hands tighten on Ignis's jacket and his gaze flickers from Ignis's eyes to his mouth and back again. His lips are pink from the heat of the tea, hot to the touch when they graze over Ignis's. 

There's barely a chance to meet the light pressure before Noctis pulls back to gauge his reaction. This is a ritual Ignis is familiar with, tentative touches that provide Ignis the opportunity to protest, the tension seeping visibly from Noctis every passing second Ignis doesn't. Part of him is waiting for Ignis to pull away and tell him that this thing between them must end. A rare show of foresight from him; someday, of course, Ignis will have to.

But not tonight. Tonight, Ignis closes his hands around sharp hips and lets his eyes slip shut, meeting each light press of Noctis's warm mouth until a very different kind of tension steals Noctis's patience and his fingers tangle into Ignis's hair and his tongue teases over the seam of Ignis's lips. Ignis opens up for him, meets Noctis's tongue with his own. His thumbs slip beneath the waistband of Noctis's trousers and press into the hollows of his hipbones, dragging him closer, humming his pleasure as Noctis's mouth becomes far more aggressive in response. Noctis's damp hair is chilly on Ignis's cheeks, the familiar scent of his expensive shampoo hitting Ignis hard, a punch of heat straight to his stomach, more of a welcome home than anything else this city could offer him. He's dizzy with it, lightheaded, taken apart each time Noctis's licks proprietorially into his mouth, greedy for everything he can take, like each kiss might be the last.

Ignis indulges him until his lips feel bruised and raw, then he cups Noctis's jaw and slows him down, kissing him deeply, lushly. He pushes off the back of the couch to sit up straight, knocking Noctis off balance, and holds him steady with a hand spread wide on his back. He parts his knees to open Noctis's wider, swallows the reluctant, shuddering moan wrenched from Noctis's throat when his groin is forced flush to Ignis's belt. His hand tightens in Ignis's hair, a sudden sting that sends blossoming heat rolling through Ignis's body.

They kiss for ages, hot, aching, Ignis's world narrowing down to lips and tongue and grabby fingers in his hair, the mouth moving under his, the slow-rolling waves of good feeling from Noctis rocking gently in his lap, rucking up fabric to feel warm skin under his hands, the shifting muscle between Noctis's shoulder blades, the elegant arch of his spine. Kissing and kissing until Ignis can't think. 

Perhaps it's survival instinct that makes him lean forward, bend Noctis back until the kiss has to break. If so it backfires spectacularly. Noctis is a ruin in his arms, dazed with arousal, face flushed and pink mouth swollen and tender. It's not any easier to breathe. Ignis tucks his face into Noctis’s pale throat and grazes his teeth over the racing pulse he finds there. The sound Noctis makes throbs in Ignis's chest, and his thighs clamp around Ignis's waist, fingers digging hard into his shoulders. Dangerous, to indulge, to let himself drown in this, to let Noctis.

Ignis holds him while they catch their breath, inhaling the clean scent of him, drawing lazy circles on Noctis's back and waiting for Noctis's pulse to slow under his lips. He touches a kiss to the hinge of Noctis's jaw, the rise of his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth. He turns them together and helps Noctis slide from his lap to a shameless sprawl on the sofa next to him, one foot on the floor and the other flat on the cushion. The sun has gone down completely but in the full moonlight Noctis's trousers leave nothing to the imagination, the shape of his hard cock obvious through the thin fabric. His hand is resting on his belly, just above the waistband, the pads of his fingers pushing in flat muscle like he's trying to keep from touching himself.

"Have you?" Ignis asks, voice hushed.

Noctis flushes but he doesn't look away, bold to a fault. Ignis waits patiently, taking a moment to remove his jacket and drape it over the back of couch, straighten his glasses, loosen the first few buttons of his shirt. Eventually, Noctis nods, the movement almost imperceptible except for the way it knocks his hair into his eyes. Ignis's face feels hot too as he reaches to smooth the dark strands back. Noctis's breath is warm on his wrist. Gruffly, he says, "Yeah. Couple days ago."

It's too easy to imagine, vivid in Ignis's mind: Noctis playing with himself, working himself up, biting back noises, thighs trembling as he brings himself off. He scoots closer to Noctis and cups him through his trousers. Noctis bites his lip, his breath hitching, hips pushing up eagerly into Ignis's hand. Ignis holds them down with his other hand and Noctis swears under his breath, throwing an arm over his eyes, embarrassed or defiant, probably both. Ignis strokes him gently, works his fingers down to the glans and rubs circles over the tip with his thumb, listening to Noctis's shaky breathing. Noctis always gets so wet, eager and dripping. It takes hardly any time for the fabric under Ignis's thumb to become damp and dark. 

Ignis studies Noctis's face, the tension at the corners of his mouth, sweat starting to shine on his forehead and upper lip. It seems to take effort every time he swallows. Ignis tugs his arm from his face, wanting to see his eyes, the fierce liquid blue of them gazing up at Ignis from under heavy lids, something defiant in them, something soft. Noctis wets his lips, fists the front of his own t-shirt for lack of anything else to hold onto, and Ignis's whole body responds powerfully, heart pounding, mouth dry, starting to sweat under his clothes, the urgent ache in his groin harder to ignore. How someone normally so self-conscious and graceless can be so unconsciously sensual in bed Ignis doesn't understand. He would accuse Noctis of doing it on purpose, but having been on the receiving end of his clumsy seduction techniques, Ignis knows better. Noctis has no idea how he looks when he's like this.

Ignis turns his hand over Noctis's eager prick to grasp the length of him, stroking him through his soft trousers. Noctis makes a glottal little _'nn'_ sound in his throat, presses his hot cheek to the sofa cushion and closes his eyes. Ignis coaxes Noctis's fingers loose from his top so he can slip his own hand beneath and rest his palm on Noctis's stomach to feel the muscles quiver. He must be so tightly wound, must badly need this release. 

He bears it a lot longer than Ignis expects, but eventually, in a tight voice, Noctis says, "Ignis."

Ignis removes his hand from between Noctis's legs and cups his face, moves between his open legs and leans over him to kiss him, roughly, thoroughly, the tension between them suddenly desperate, the pressure in his groin unbearable. Noctis comes up to meet him with equal fervor, sucking filthily on Ignis's tongue, lifting his hips so Ignis can tug his trousers down. His hands move frantically to Ignis's belt, pawing it open with clumsy impatience and tearing the button and zipper of his trousers loose, skin-hungry. Ignis helps him shove them down off his hips. Their wet kisses sound too loud in the air, even over the roar of blood in Ignis's ears. When he gets a hand around them both their cocks are slick with pre-come and that's even more obscene. 

Ignis can't get enough. Noctis is a live wire underneath him, frenetic energy that surges up Ignis's spine and crashes explosive pleasure through him. There's nothing in the way of finesse, and surely he's too old to be rutting on the sofa like a teenager, close from a bit of snogging, but here he is.

He shifts his weight, lets gravity drive their hips together and grinds down, freeing his hand to cup and squeeze Noctis's balls, tuck his fingers behind them and rub. Noctis muffles a broken cry into his mouth, breaks the kiss to take gulping breaths and dig his fingers into Ignis's back, holding onto him hard enough to leave bruises. He hisses Ignis's name, legs wrapping tight around him to dig his heels into the backs of Ignis's thighs, wanting more, always wanting more. 

Ignis catches his lips again, licks into his mouth, feeling Noctis's magic flicker awake inside him, expand to flood every part of him, invasive, exquisite. It's wholly, achingly intimate. It makes Ignis feel like he's been taken to pieces, leaves him raw and exposed, teetering on the edge of a cliff. His fingers press further back, rub dry over Noctis's sensitive entrance, and there's nothing in the world like the sight of Noctis falling apart, pink mouth open, eyes clenched shut, body arched and every tendon held taut and ready to snap. Ignis feels him come, spilling hotly between them, feels the fracturing pleasure that pulls him under, hears his name on Noctis's lips, and follows.

He drops his forehead onto Noctis's collarbone as they recover. Their clothes are wrecked and tangled and they're both sticky but Noctis's fingers feel nice carding through his hair. After a couple minutes he urges Ignis up for another kiss, clumsy and sweet. He's languid now, sated, his softening cock indolent against his thigh. He gives Ignis a smug little grin. "So. Welcome back."

Ignis arches an eyebrow. "Indeed."

Noctis replies with a yawn, wriggling a bit to get more comfortable, all slow blinks and heavy limbs. He'd fall asleep right here if Ignis let him, cock out and messy with come, utterly shameless. Ignis shouldn't be endeared. He prods Noctis up and off the sofa, through the bedroom to the ensuite to clean them both up. Noctis grumbles the whole time, but brushes his teeth and pulls on a clean pair of pajama bottoms before crawling into bed, which is more than Ignis could hope for. 

Ignis gathers his soiled lounge pants and t-shirt to take them to Noctis's hamper in the laundry room. Noctis's voice stops him at the bedroom door.

"Are you staying?" he says sleepily.

He always asks. Ignis's answer is always the same. "Yes."

 

*

 

He's reaching for his glasses before he's even fully awake, flushed with adrenaline by honed instinct, though he knows what's happening even before his vision clears. Noctis hasn't been awake for long. He's still trembling, turned away and trying to muffle the sound of his harsh breathing. There's a faint, dissipating glow of magic in the air around him. When Ignis touches his back it rushes to the point of contact, welcoming, spirals around Ignis's wrist and forearm before it completely fades.

"Noct," Ignis says.

Noctis sighs. He sits up, moving slowly like an old man as he peels off his t-shirt because it's drenched in cold sweat and toss it onto the floor. He doesn't often go topless, even to sleep. The raised and knotted tissue of the stretched, jagged scar down his torso left by the poison-tipped sword of the daemon that had so nearly taken his life as a child is visible even in the light filtering in from the closed blinds. Goosebumps break out over his skin before he slumps back down, eyes on the ceiling. 

"Sorry I woke you up," he murmurs.

"As you should be," Ignis says. It gets him a faint smile in response, quick to fade. There's a hollowed-out look in his bloodshot eyes, an inexplicable age to them. 

After a while, he asks, "What'd my dad want with you and Gladio?"

Ignis chooses his words carefully. "He wanted to make a few changes to our schedules."

"Must be important changes, for the king to be personally involved," Noctis says dryly.

"Quite." Ignis allows a humorless smile. "Gladio is going to start shadowing his father full-time, learn the ins and outs of being Lord Amicitia. I'll be attending High Council meetings as an advisor rather than an observer."

"No shit," Noctis says. "You get to wear the robes?"

Ignis hums. "It's still an ancillary position, I'm not being sworn in - my opinion will now be heard but I won't be involved in voting. If a new uniform is part of the deal though I imagine it would be that of the Crownsguard. His Majesty has asked Marshall Leonis to oversee an advanced combat training regimen for myself and Gladio, since Gladio has already mastered his father's technique. He's also asked that Gladio extend your own training to include Prompto, if he's agreeable."

Noctis snorts. "He's agreeable. He's been dying to get in on it forever."

"He's very fast, with good reflexes, and he's ambidextrous. Gladio is going to try him on a number of weapons in hopes that he has any natural acumen to exploit."

"Pistols," Noctis says. "He's a crack shot. His mom and dad taught him."

It makes perfect sense. Prompto's parents both work the graveyard shift at the military munitions factory. His father is the night manager and his mother is in charge of quality control. She can probably outshoot most of the Guard. 

"I'll pass it along," Ignis says.

Conversation falls away. Noctis takes slow, even breaths. It's minutes before he speaks again. "He asked me about my classes, and if I'm eating okay. We made plans to visit my mom's grave on her birthday next month. He said… He didn't say anything. He just talked. Even when I asked, he just…" He trails off, his hands fisting into the covers at his sides. "He doesn't tell me anything. He's trying to protect me, but it's not like I don't know what he's doing, or that he's dying." Quietly, he says, "It's killing him faster than he thought it would. He's preparing my Glaive."

Ignis doesn't insult him by trying to soften the blow. "Yes."

This is the kind of situation that Gladio or Prompto are much better equipped to handle. Ignis is pragmatic to a fault, cerebral rather than emotional. Comforting does not come naturally to him, even if the desire to offer it does, but as usual Noctis proves to be both the rule and the exception. When he allows it, which is so rarely, in these moments when he's brittle it's impossible to be anything but tender with him.

Ignis touches Noctis's cheek, and when he doesn't pull away slides his fingers through sweat-damp spikes of hair, watches Noctis's eyes slip closed and flutter open again. Ignis ghosts his fingertips around the shell of one ear, along the cut of his jaw and down the line of his neck, dipping into the hollow of his throat. He allows the silence to stretch on, not wanting to fill it with placating words or promises he can't keep.

Eventually, Noctis turns onto his side to face him. "Sorry, I'm being dramatic. I'm just tired."

"It's not like you to have trouble sleeping," Ignis says. "Is it nightmares that have been keeping you awake at night?" 

"Nah," Noctis says. There's a soft blush rising in his cheeks. "Just not used to sleeping alone anymore, I guess."

Oh, Ignis should put a stop to this, before it goes too far, before they're both in too deep to get out again.

Instead he draws Noctis in close so their bare chests touch, draws Noctis's mouth to his own in a slow, open-mouthed kiss that leeches the fidgety tension from Noctis's body and leaves him languorous and wanting, an irksome voice in Ignis's head whispering _it's too late_. Noctis scratches his fingernails through the sparse hair on Ignis's chest, his other hand busy loosening the drawstrings of Ignis's pajamas.

"Noct," Ignis says, and gives up whatever else he was going to add when Noctis's teeth sink gently into his bottom lip. He helps Noctis get his pajama bottoms off, kicking them to the foot of the bed and pushing Noctis's off his hips, groping handfuls of his skinny arse as Noctis wriggles free of them. Noctis's hand slides up his flank, fingertips ghosting under his arm and around his back, curving over Ignis's shoulder blade. Ignis palms down the back of his thigh, guides his knee up to hook over Ignis's hip so they're pressed flush from chest to groin.

Noctis touches their foreheads together. He says, " _Ignis_. I want you to fuck me."

Ignis should say no, for a myriad of reasons. He says, "Yes."

He rolls them over, settles into the cradle Noctis makes of his thighs, bracing himself on one elbow and cupping the back of Noctis's head in his hand as they kiss. Noctis makes his way down Ignis's jaw to his neck, the base of his throat near his collar bone, the soft sound of his mouth moving on his skin ringing in Ignis's ears. He pulls Noctis back up for another kiss with both hands in his hair, rubs his tongue over the wet inside of Noctis's mouth. The taste of him, the barely-there sounds Noctis can't hold back, the quietly-desperate way he clutches Ignis to him is entirely addictive. Ignis wants to give him everything, deny him nothing, take him out of his head and out from beneath the burden he was born to bear and wring him out so thoroughly with pleasure that he'll be too exhausted to dream.

The urgency of their earlier encounter is absent. Ignis measures time in Noctis's moans and gasps as he works pink nipples to stiff peaks with his lips and tongue, the jagged ridges of the scar under his mouth, the twitch of calloused fingertips on the nape of his neck when he drags his tongue down the crease between thigh and pelvis. He opens Noctis up with with his fingers, licks the soft, almost-wounded sounds from his lips when he adds a third, Noctis riding down onto his hand, instinctively chasing the feeling, turning his face into the pillow to hide his eyes behind his hair when Ignis rubs deliberately over his prostate before withdrawing altogether. Noctis tilts his head back and gasps when he takes Ignis's slick cock.

It's sleepy, slow, intimate sex. It's so late, and they're both mentally and physically exhausted. They don't talk, or make much noise, just kiss and kiss and move together, chasing sensation. Noctis is tight, clutching rich heat inside, the way he opens up to Ignis on each slow thrust knocking Ignis's breath from his lungs. At some point Noctis urges him over and onto his back, laces their fingers together and works himself on Ignis's cock in agonizing rolls of his hips. When it gets to be too much Ignis sits up and Noctis kisses him, breaths coming out as hitching half-sobs as Ignis's hand curls around his cock. 

" _Fuck,_ " Noctis groans. He's been hard for so long that it only takes a couple light pulls to make him come in long, jerking pulses into Ignis's hand. The way he looks coupled with the way he feels clamping down rhythmically around his cock rips Ignis's orgasm from him, and he holds Noctis down tightly by the hips as he shudders with release.

Noctis is useless after, asleep by the time Ignis takes care of the condom and wipes them both clean of come and lube. Ignis digs their pajamas and underwear out from where they're wedged and rumpled under the sheets and tosses them to the floor to pick up later, and draws the covers back over them to close out the chilly winter night air. Noctis twitches, brow furrowing, restless. Ignis fits himself into the space behind him, fits them together, tucks Noctis securely into the frame of his body. Noctis murmurs groggily, a question, his hand finding Ignis's wrist at his chest and gripping tightly. 

Ignis kisses the back of one pale shoulder, soothing him back into sleep, lets his lips linger there, wishing he could imprint this feeling into Noctis's skin to carry with him the same way Noctis has carved pathways for his magic beneath Ignis's. The stirring of it inside him is a reminder that this prince doesn't need his help or his protection, that even fracturing under the pressure, the royal blood of Lucis is not so easily spilled. 

But it's not Noctis's royal blood that Ignis fears the loss of. It's the rest of him. _I'm here. I'll always be here. I've got you, you aren't alone. Stay with me, stay here with me._

 

*

 

In the morning Ignis goes for a run, showers and gets dressed for the day, and does a big shop to restock the kitchen. While he works on the laundry he sits on the sofa with his third cup of coffee and his tablet and catches up on emails and makes a start on the work items that have piled up in his absence. He's technically still on leave for the rest of the weekend, but Chief Councillor Lady Telza has already reached out to supply her schedule as well as those of the other members of the High Council that he will be shadowing for a few hours each week on a rotational basis, so that he can start to adjust his calendar accordingly. 

Noctis stumbles out of the bedroom in his underwear around noon to pour himself a bowl of cereal, bleary-eyed and speaking in grunts. If he's surprised to find his cupboards full of groceries it doesn't show. Then again as far as Ignis is aware Noctis has never set foot in a grocery store. It's possible he doesn't know that they exist at all, and is under the impression that food simply appears in cabinets left empty long enough. Ignis replies to Lady Telza while Noctis crunches loudly at the kitchen island, pleased to hear running water and then the sound of the dishwasher opening and closing ten minutes later. 

He does his best to look disapproving when Noctis jumps lightly over the back of the sofa to sit on the other end and put his feet in Ignis's lap. Noctis doesn't notice, too busy digging around underneath himself for whatever he accidentally sat on, which turns out to be Ignis's mobile. With all the squirming he nearly kicks Ignis in the crotch.

"Noct," Ignis says sternly.

"Sorry," Noctis says. He takes his feet off Ignis's lap, pulling his knees up and tucking his cold toes under Ignis's thigh instead, and grabs the meteorite fragment Ignis brought him to fiddle with while he messes with Ignis's phone. While he's distracted Ignis looks him over. He seems better this morning, the circles under his eyes absent, posture loose, less tense.

"What're you staring at?" Noctis says.

"Your Illustrious and Royal Grace, of course," says Ignis. "Isn't that why you keep me around, to bask in your regal glow?"

"About all you're good for, yeah," Noctis agrees, smile playing at his lips.

"Yes, well," Ignis drawls, "you have a marshmallow stuck to your face, Your Highness."

"Shit."

As Noctis scrubs at his cheek, Ignis grins and sets his tablet down next to his mug on the table. He turns a bit to face his charge, rests his cheek on the back of the sofa and loops an arm under Noctis's bent legs to stroke his fingers over a toned calf. There are several things he should be doing, chief among them _not_ sitting here making moon eyes at the future king of Lucis, behind whom it is and will always be Ignis's place to stand, never at his side.

"Hey," Noctis says, squinting at Ignis's phone. "Why've you got like thirty pictures of this bird on your phone?" He looks up with a grin. "Its hair is just like yours. Long lost brother?"

He dodges Ignis's lunge for the phone but not the sofa pillow that smacks into his face. His extremely satisfying yelp is worth the knee to the chest. They fall inelegantly onto the floor in front of the coffee table, squabbling like when they were kids and Noctis would drive Ignis to petty quarreling no matter how mature or upstanding Ignis thought he was as a boy. They come to a rest tangled together, laughing, turn to kissing, smiling against each other's mouths.

If the king could only see them now… But fuck it. Ignis is off the clock. The future can wait.

 

**the end**

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come and shout with me about all things FFXV over on tumblr! I am at [ataraxetta](http://ataraxetta.tumblr.com/).


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